


Breath

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Strangulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 05:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3278258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people are not averse to fighting dirty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breath

**Author's Note:**

> A quick fill for this prompt:
> 
> "I've seen a few stories where Athos's scarf was used in different situations - and loved them btw. But I would like to have one or more where it nearly cost him his life." (Full prompt [here](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/2286.html?thread=3196910#cmt3196910).)
> 
> Feel free to read as much into the relationship between Athos and Porthos as you wish.

The tug at his neck takes Athos by surprise and in the split second before he can round on his attacker the hand on his scarf twists, pulling the cloth tight against his skin.

He still tries to make the turn, a soldier’s training and an innate instinct for self-preservation lending his limbs extraordinary strength. His assailant steps back, out of reach, a quite natural reaction that grants him the added advantage of jerking Athos off balance. He stumbles—the scarf tightening again—and feels a boot connect with the back of his knee.

Strangely, there is no pain, but the jolt as his knees hit the hard ground forces the last of his breath from his lungs. His lips part, but whether to draw breath or call for help makes little difference for he can do neither. Fingers scrabbling at his neck, he tries to find purchase beneath the fabric but it is already flush against his skin, pulled impossibly tighter as his head is yanked up roughly. His strength, so potent just a moment ago, ebbs from his limbs leaving them leaden, useless. He has dropped his pistol, can’t seem to guide his hand to the hilt of his sword.

Fire ignites in his chest; the sounds of the continuing skirmish fade, replaced by the raging rush of blood that throbs in his ears and behind his eyes. Shadows creep into the edges of his vision, the darkness encroaching slowly, surely, seductive in its promise of peace, whispering his name in a voice comforting in its familiarity.

Perhaps it is only right that this should be his fate.

“Athos!”

Loud now, desperate, ringing in his head and drawing him back from the black void. He still can’t see, can’t make any sense of the other words crashing around him, but he knows it is Porthos, and he clings to that certainty like a lifeline.

He is alive—the ache in his chest tells him as much—and he sucks in air that burns his throat. The constricting pressure has gone, but the skin of his neck is raw, stinging where the cool breeze touches it, and he can’t move, can’t control the trembling that wracks his body. But there are strong arms holding him, the solid support that is Porthos at his back, and he rests his heavy head on that warm, sturdy shoulder, smells the familiar mix of leather and gunpowder as his chest heaves and his heart stops pounding.

His vision returns: bright light and vivid colours. The body of his attacker lies a few feet away, the unnatural angle of his head silently, concisely recounting the story of Porthos’s rescue. Athos knows how close he came to meeting a similar end and once he would have welcomed it. Once.

It takes a supreme effort to turn his head but he does, meets Porthos’s eyes and recognises in them a residual trace of fear. He wants to say something to reassure him, to thank him, but can’t find his voice. It hurts even to swallow.

“Dunno why you insist on wearin’ that damn thing.”

Porthos’s voice is gruff, thick with emotion he is unable to conceal. Were he able to speak, Athos could list any number of reasons – all of which seem unimportant now. Instead, he makes do with a smile that says more than words ever could. Porthos grunts, a sound that conveys profound relief, fond despair, and wry amusement, and he presses his lips to Athos’s hair.

Clumsy fingers seek out Porthos’s hand, curl around it as tightly as they are able. Athos feels the responding squeeze and accepts the comfort of the promise it holds.


End file.
